


The Fine Art of Conversation

by seaholly



Series: Guiding Hand [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Cuddling, Discipline, M/M, Pre-Slash, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaholly/pseuds/seaholly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wants to talk about the rules. Sherlock thinks this is entirely unnecessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Art of Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on directly from Glass Fish on a Flat Barrel.

 

When John woke up from his nap, it was with a strong sense of déjà vu, since he was once again faintly roused by the warm body beside him shifting away, and then woken up fully by a pained sounding yelp from Sherlock. Although this time, there was no doubt in his mind that it was indeed Sherlock doing the yelping.

Startled even so, John sat up in a hurry, instantly wide awake and looking around in concern for the source of the yelp. It was only when he actually saw Sherlock—who was standing beside the bed and very gingerly rubbing his backside—that John remembered where he was and just how he’d ended up there.

And then he mused that at least this time they were on Sherlock’s bed instead of on the sofa, so he wasn’t waking up with a sore shoulder and a massive crick in his neck.

Of course, the lack of a sore shoulder and neck was balanced out by an ache in another area. Even on a bed instead of on the sofa, sitting down still wasn’t particularly comfortable, and John quickly decided to follow Sherlock’s example and get up. He slid off the bed, managing to wince only slightly, and then offered a wry little smile to Sherlock, who was still carefully rubbing behind him.

“Might be time for arnica cream all round, I’d say,” John said, giving a rueful rub to his own backside. Sherlock paused in his efforts at soothing himself and eyed him for a moment, before letting his lips quirk ever so slightly upwards.

“I’d appreciate that,” he said with an obvious attempt at dignity, although it was somewhat lessened by the fact that he still hadn’t taken his hands away from his clearly very sore bottom.

“You’re not the only one,” John replied with a chuckle. “Come on, then. No time like the present. Drop them and lie down.”

He turned away to give Sherlock some privacy with which to obey, while he retrieved the tub of arnica cream from Sherlock’s bedside table. He made a vague note of the time as he reached for it; it was just after eleven. They’d only been asleep for a couple of hours—or John had been asleep for a couple of hours, at least. Who knew about Sherlock? For all John knew, Sherlock might have been asleep for fifteen minutes and spent the rest of the time doing mad experiments before sneaking back onto the bed with him.

The mental image made him smile to himself, although John seriously doubted it was actually the case. He’d woken up when Sherlock moved away from him, and he was pretty sure he’d have woken up whenever that happened. The odds were that Sherlock had spent those couple of hours cuddled up to him right where he’d been when John had fallen asleep.

That mental image made him smile to himself even more. There was something enormously endearing about finding out that Sherlock—cold as ice, superior Sherlock—liked to cuddle. And the fact that John was pretty damn sure Sherlock wouldn’t have indulged that liking for cuddling with anyone except him gave him that soppy warm feeling deep down inside again. He might have been a bit embarrassed by that, but somehow the fact that he was getting soppy over Sherlock seemed to make it all right.

He heard the telltale rustling behind him of pyjama bottoms being lowered, and then a moment later the faint creak of the bed as Sherlock lay down on it. When he turned around, he found that Sherlock had taken up the position that was becoming increasingly familiar: face down on the bed with his pyjama bottoms at his knees and his chin propped up on his hands.

John moved closer, his eyes going automatically to Sherlock’s bottom to check the damage. He was pleased to see that much of the red flush had already faded, although the skin was still tinged a medium sort of pink everywhere John had spanked him. The patchwork of bruises from the first spanking actually looked slightly less vivid now against the background colour, but still stood out in fading lilac-yellow splotches low down on Sherlock’s cheeks.

John was glad that he didn’t seem to have added to them—he’d been trying to be careful, aiming for surface sting rather than any bruising force, but it had been his first time using the hairbrush, and he hadn’t been entirely sure he was getting it right. He was relieved to see that he seemed to have judged it reasonably well.

Of course, all of that said, John was in no doubt that Sherlock’s bottom was still very sore indeed, no matter how much the red blush might have faded while they slept. Sherlock’s yelp when he had attempted to sit up was proof enough of that.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, tucking a knee up so that he could get himself at a convenient angle, but the sharp twinge in his own backside made him think better of trying to stay in that position. He slid back off the bed with a rueful chuckle, and tried kneeling on it instead. That worked better, so he settled himself into a comfortable pose, and then reached out a hand to pat Sherlock’s lower back consolingly.

“You’re not as colourful back here as you were, but I bet it’s still pretty sore,” he said. “The cream should take some of the heat out of it, though.”

Sherlock squirmed very slightly under his hand, then turned his head just enough to cast a quick, half-hidden look at John over his shoulder. “It’s not so bad,” he said quietly. “Not when I’m not putting pressure on it.”

“Good,” John said, giving him another pat. “But this should help anyway.”

He took his hand away from Sherlock’s back long enough to pop the lid off the arnica cream, then scooped out a double fingerful. Resting his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back again, John gave him a pat of warning this time. “Okay, here we go.”

He felt Sherlock tense under his hand at the first touch to his bottom, but John took care to be as gentle as he could be, just smoothing the cream lightly over the skin rather than actually trying to rub it in, all the while keeping his free hand on Sherlock’s back. He was pleased when Sherlock began to relax again after only a few moments, the tension bleeding out of him with a soft sigh. It could just have been relief, but John rather thought that sigh sounded almost contented, which pleased him even more.

As he continued his ministrations, Sherlock relaxed even further and let his head lower, turning it so that he could rest his cheek on his folded hands. Interestingly, he didn’t turn his head away, but rather towards John. John had no idea whether that was deliberate or not, but he decided to take it as a positive sign either way. Turning towards him instead of away seemed to him like a sign of trust, and an indication that Sherlock wasn’t feeling uncomfortable with either him or what he was doing.

All of that was good, very good. If their arrangement was going to work, there had to be trust between them, it was absolutely vital. John knew that there already was—and indeed if there wasn’t, Sherlock would never have agreed to this in the first place—but it was still comforting to see it displayed so openly in Sherlock’s body language.

For his part, John did his best to live up to that trust by doctoring Sherlock as thoroughly and as gently as he could, applying cream to all the areas that he’d earlier applied the hairbrush to, and paying special attention to the fading patchwork of bruises. Apparently he was being quite careful enough, since Sherlock barely moved after settling into his more relaxed position, except to occasionally take a deeper breath and let it out in a quiet sigh.

John had glanced up in concern the first time that happened, worried that he might have put too much pressure on a sore spot, but Sherlock’s eyes were closed and his expression, what John could see of it at least, was smooth and peaceful. In fact he appeared quite remarkably relaxed for Sherlock, and John felt another little flush of pleasure that Sherlock would not only trust him to do this but would also settle so readily under his touch.

With that in mind—because God knew Sherlock could use every bit of settling he could get, not to mention the comfort he was apparently taking from John’s efforts—John drew out the doctoring rather longer than was actually necessary, until Sherlock appeared to be all but asleep under his hands.

In his mind, John couldn’t help comparing it to the first time he’d done this, when Sherlock had started out as tense as a drawn wire and had only begun to relax after much effort on John’s part and largely out of sheer exhaustion. The difference between then and now was astonishing; Sherlock seemed to be genuinely soothed by this, and was making no effort to hide it. It was, John thought, just another encouraging sign of the trust that had grown between them, and he intended to honour that trust by giving Sherlock all the soothing he needed.

John finally left off his ministrations only when his knees began to protest just that little bit too much to tolerate, advising him that he really needed to unfold them before they started to get genuinely annoyed about things. With some regret, he gave a last gentle rub of his arnica’ed hand to the darkest of the bruised areas—which wasn’t actually very dark at all, he was glad to see—and followed that up with a final comforting pat to the small of Sherlock’s back, before sliding rather gingerly off the bed.

He couldn’t quite contain a hiss as he straightened his knees, and Sherlock shifted very slightly, opening his eyes just enough for two slivers of grey iris to peer out at John. John rubbed ruefully at his knees for a moment, then smiled at Sherlock and leaned across the bed to pat his back again.

“All done,” he said. “Does that feel better?”

Sherlock’s eyes opened a little more, and he nodded. “Yes, much,” he murmured, then added rather diffidently, “Thank you.”

John waved it off. “Part of the service,” he said with a grin. “Cuddles and doctoring after every punishment, guaranteed.”

That got a faint smile from Sherlock in return, and after a moment more he lifted his head and rolled over to lean on one elbow, propping his chin up on his other hand. He still looked rather adorably sleepy, but he seemed to be rapidly coming to, his eyes growing more alert by the moment.

“Your turn, then,” he said, his gaze flicking to the tub of arnica cream and then back to John.

John chuckled and waved him off again. He’d been so focused on what he was doing that he’d almost forgotten about Sherlock’s offer to return the favour. “You don’t have to,” he said. “I’m not that badly off.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. He looked fully awake now, his eyes clear and his expression faintly amused. “You won’t even sit down on the bed because it hurts.”

“Well, maybe,” John said wryly, giving his bottom a rueful little rub. “But I could sit if I had to. It’s not really that bad.”

Sherlock gave a derisive snort. “I do remember how the cane feels. It is that bad.”

John shrugged. It actually really wasn’t that bad, or at least he didn’t think so. All right, it ached a bit and sitting wasn’t particularly comfortable, which was why he was avoiding it. But as he’d just told Sherlock, he could certainly sit if he had to. It just wouldn’t be comfortable.

“All right, it’s not brilliant,” he agreed, not wanting to argue about the differing possible definitions of ‘that bad’. “But still, you don’t have to doctor me. I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock regarded him intently for a moment, and then his brows drew together in sudden, indignant irritation. “I let you do it to me,” he said, and his tone left John in no doubt that he was now rather annoyed.

Slightly taken aback by the abrupt change in Sherlock’s mood—even though he knew he really ought to be used to it by now—John stumbled momentarily for an answer. “Well, yeah,” he said finally, and rather awkwardly. “But I’m a doctor, I’m more used to . . . you know, doing things like that.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You think I can’t do it.”

“What? No,” John protested immediately. “Of course I don’t think you can’t do it. It’s not—there’s not that much to do, of course you can do it.”

“You think I won’t be any good at it, then.”

“No, I don’t,” John began, but Sherlock cut him off, the storm of indignation going on as if John hadn’t even spoken.

“Just because I’m not a doctor doesn’t mean I won’t be good at it,” he insisted, his voice growing more strident with every word. “I can be gentle. I’ll have you know that I have very gentle hands. I play the violin. And what’s more I play it very well.”

John really had no idea how they had ended up here, having somehow made the jump from him just trying to say that Sherlock needn’t bother doctoring him since he really was fine, to arguing about how gentle Sherlock’s hands were. Or at least, Sherlock was arguing. John was just being carried along with the tide.

Thoroughly bemused, he found himself looking at Sherlock’s hands—which wasn’t hard to do, since Sherlock had freed the one that had been propping his chin up and was now holding it out for John’s perusal. His hands were large, elegant and long-fingered, the perfect hands for a musician. And he did play the violin beautifully, at least when he wanted to actually play rather than just torture the strings. Not to mention, he also performed a lot of rather delicate scientific work, something else that required a careful touch. He probably did have gentle hands, come to that.

Hoping Sherlock might be mollified by his agreement on that issue, John hastened to give it. “I’m sure you do have gentle hands. I never even implied that you didn’t.”

Sherlock’s scowl in return did not appear mollified in the slightest. “Then why won’t you let me do it? I let you. And we agreed.”

“I—“ John started to speak and then stopped, suddenly wondering if that—the fact that they had agreed—was partly what this was all about. Sherlock was right, they had agreed—or at least Sherlock had offered and John had accepted, which was basically the same thing. Was Sherlock’s sudden show of temper stemming from the fact that John appeared to be trying to go back on that agreement? Was he still feeling insecure, alert for any sign that John might not hold to things he’d previously committed to?

John had wondered just hours ago if Sherlock’s mad misbehaviour this morning might have happened partly because he was feeling insecure, and so was trying to test John’s commitment to him. Of course he didn’t know for sure, but if that had indeed been the case, then could this be more of the same?

Considering it now, John thought it was probably at least a possibility, even if Sherlock would never admit to it.

And really, why was he arguing about it at all? He _had_ agreed. And he certainly wouldn’t object to some relief for his rather sore backside, because while it really wasn’t that bad, it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. He just hadn’t wanted Sherlock to feel obligated to do it. John was a doctor; he was well used to treating injuries both big and small, and also well used to the physical contact that came with it. Sherlock wasn’t, and John hadn’t wanted to make him uncomfortable.

But Sherlock seemed to genuinely want to return the favour, at least if his reaction to John’s attempted refusal was anything to go by. And not letting him do it might well make him think that John was reneging on an agreement between them, which wouldn’t be a good thing for maintaining trust. At the very least, it might hurt his feelings—a notion that Sherlock would probably scoff at, but John knew better.

And he _had_ agreed.

“You’re right,” he said quickly, jumping into the silence that had fallen between them before Sherlock could go off on another tirade. “You’re right, we did agree. And of course you can do it to me too. I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to.”

“Of course I don’t feel like I have to,” Sherlock said testily, but his expression had softened a little in contrast to his tone, almost as if he’d been able to read what John had been thinking. And since this was Sherlock they were talking about, for all John knew, he had.

“Okay then,” John said. “That’s good.” He hesitated, not quite sure what to do next. “Um . . . all right then?”

Sherlock gave a single sharp nod. “Your turn,” he said, emphatically and with obvious satisfaction. With the matter apparently settled, he rolled rather gingerly off the bed and straightened up, turning away to ease his pyjama bottoms back up. When he turned back to face John, the last traces of irritation had vanished from his face; instead he looked pleased and faintly amused.

“Come on, then,” he said, indicating the bed. “Drop them and lie down.” And then he pointedly turned his back.

It was a very obviously deliberate echo of what John had said to him, and John rolled his eyes in response, but couldn’t hold back a wry chuckle. He dutifully complied, unzipping his jeans and easing both them and his pants down to his knees, before climbing rather awkwardly onto the bed. He lay down on his front, and deciding to do a bit of mimicry of his own in return, propped his chin up on his hands and tried his best to look sulky.

Sherlock turned around a moment later, took in John’s posture and expression and smirked. “It looks better when I do it,” he said.

“Said he, modestly,” John retorted, although a smile was pulling at the corners of his mouth, no doubt ruining his attempt at looking  
sullen.

“I’ve never once claimed to be modest,” Sherlock said, moving around the bed to retrieve the tub of arnica cream. He propped a knee up and leaned over to examine the cane marks on John’s backside, while John craned over his shoulder to watch him. Sherlock’s expression was curious and intent, as if he was looking at some new experiment, and John thought it felt rather odd having that expression directed at his bottom.

To distract himself, he tried to crane further so that he could see the marks for himself. It was hard to get a good look at them from over his own shoulder, but he could still get the impression of deep pink lines, standing out boldly against the surrounding pale skin.

“Very straight,” Sherlock remarked, his eyes still tracing the welts. “Not bad for over pants.”

John snorted. “Yeah, and I really appreciated your aim, too,” he said, his tone making it clear that he had not, in fact, appreciated Sherlock’s aim one bit.

Sherlock finally looked up from his perusal of the marks and met John’s eyes. “I did give you cuddle time afterwards,” he said, suddenly sounding a little less sure of himself.

John grinned at him, not wanting to spoil the apparently playful mood. “Yeah, you did, and I actually did appreciate that.”

Sherlock looked happier at that, and held up the tub of arnica cream with a little flourish. “And this will make it feel better,” he said with apparent satisfaction.

“Suits me,” John said, turning to face forward again and wriggling a bit to make himself more comfortable. “Go on, then.”

He felt the mattress shift as Sherlock climbed onto it properly, and then there was a bit of squirming around as he settled himself—no doubt he was having the same problem John had had, of trying to find a position that was comfortable for his sore bottom. Finally he went still, and then there was a long moment of silence, during which Sherlock didn’t seem to be moving at all. It felt, or at least John thought it felt, somehow uncertain—almost as if now that Sherlock had got himself settled he wasn’t quite sure what to do next.

John fought the urge to turn around again and look, perhaps even to assure Sherlock one more time that he didn’t have to do this if he didn’t want to. It was more than a little tempting, especially when he was certain he could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him the whole time, but some clear instinct told him it wouldn’t be the right approach. Sherlock had made it very plain that he did want to do this, and John had agreed to let him. Better now to just let him start in his own time.

And besides, he thought wryly, knowing Sherlock, it was probably just as likely that he was mentally calculating some kind of complex mathematical grid in the shape of John’s backside so as to get the most efficient coverage with the cream, or something equally ridiculous.

He managed not to chuckle at that piece of whimsy, but he couldn’t help smiling just a little, feeling himself relax at the same time. Really, he was making far too much out of a few moments of hesitation. Sherlock wasn’t squeamish, and if the idea really made him uncomfortable he’d never have insisted on it in the first place. He’d do it in his own time, just like he did everything. And that was fine. John was in no hurry.

As if his change of mood had been some kind of signal—and for all John knew, it had been—a hand suddenly came to rest across the small of his back, pressing lightly before patting a couple of times.

“I’m going to start now,” Sherlock said quietly. “It might be cold.”

John hesitated, just for a moment. Sherlock’s voice was oddly quiet, actually, although John didn’t think he sounded uncomfortable. Just . . . hushed.

Still, he made sure to offer some reassurance in return, just in case. “That’s fine,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Go ahead.”

There was another pause, much shorter this time, and then Sherlock’s other hand—this one cool with arnica cream—settled very gently onto his bottom. It held still for a moment, and then began to rub just as carefully as it had landed, the long fingers almost ghosting over his skin. Somehow Sherlock’s touch was just firm enough not to tickle, but also delicate enough that even when he began to trace the welts that the cane had left, the discomfort was so slight that John doubted he’d even have noticed it if he hadn’t been paying so much attention.

Well, he thought, that certainly settled the issue of whether or not Sherlock had gentle hands. He really _did_.

Instantly deciding that he might as well get comfortable and enjoy this, John echoed Sherlock’s earlier move and turned his head to the side, so that he could relax his neck and rest his cheek on his hands. He was thinking about it as he did it, so it was a conscious decision on his part to turn his face towards Sherlock rather than away, but even so he had a feeling he’d have done it anyway.

The turn of his head gave him a peripheral glimpse of Sherlock, kneeling up beside him and apparently quite intent on his task, his curly head bent forward as he worked. His fingers were still stroking ever so gently along the sore stripes on John’s bottom, smoothing the cream in with that amazingly delicate touch, while his other hand rested lightly in the small of John’s back, the warm weight of it surprisingly comforting.

That hand on his back was exactly what John had done for him, and John didn’t know if it was actually deliberate mimicry or if Sherlock just wanted somewhere to put his other hand, but either way he found it hugely endearing. Either Sherlock was actively trying to imitate John and offer reassurance, or he was comfortable enough with touching John to just have a hand on him for convenience. Whichever one it was, John was pleased and touched, and it made him smile to himself as he let his eyes close.

Once he’d allowed himself to properly relax under Sherlock’s surprisingly gentle ministrations, John soon began to understand exactly why Sherlock had been left in such a sleepy puddle the first time John had done this for him. All right, Sherlock had also been exhausted at the time, but even so, this was seriously soothing. John hadn’t actually thought he was in need of any soothing—either physical or otherwise—but now that he was getting it, he was finding it very pleasant indeed.

And Sherlock seemed in no hurry to finish, either, given the amount of care he was taking with the job. He’d started by tracing just with his fingers along the marks the cane had left, and John was pretty sure he’d actually done them all at least twice, but now he was using his whole hand, and he seemed to have moved onto a sort of all-purpose rubbing of the entire area. John didn’t mind at all.

Although really, he thought somewhat dreamily, ‘rubbing’ seemed like almost too harsh a word for what Sherlock was doing. That touch was—well, if it had been anyone but Sherlock doing the touching, John would probably have called it a caress.

Actually, even though it was Sherlock doing the touching, John would still call it a caress. It was amazing. He’d never have thought that Sherlock could be so . . . well, caressing.

And just like John had enjoyed waking up with Sherlock snuggled up beside him, he was enjoying this in equal measure. It had been a long time since he’d had this kind of physical comfort, this kind of closeness, and it was really . . . just . . . _nice_.

And to think, he thought with hazy amusement, he’d actually been reluctant to let Sherlock do this. Sherlock was right, he _was_ an idiot.

By the time Sherlock finally did stop, John was very nearly asleep, and so comfortable that moving seemed almost unthinkable. But he was still aware enough—just—to feel the pat on his lower back, and to hear Sherlock say in a tone of great satisfaction, “All done. Does that feel better?”

John was so drowsy that it took real effort for him to reply, but after a moment or two he did manage to hum out a slurry-sounding, “Mmm-hmm.”

He felt the mattress shift and then shift again, as Sherlock turned himself around the right way and then lay down next to him. “I already knew it did,” Sherlock said, his voice now right beside John’s ear. “But asking seemed like the thing to do.”

Even as sleepy as he was, that drew a huff of laughter from John, and after a moment he managed, again with some effort, to crack his eyelids open just enough to see Sherlock’s face. He wasn’t surprised in the least to see that Sherlock looked unutterably smug.

“I told you I have gentle hands,” Sherlock said, and somehow managed to look even smugger.

That made John chuckle again. Sherlock was usually more than a bit insufferable when he was being smug, but right then he was so obviously and endearingly pleased with himself that it was just rather adorable.

John forced his eyes to open properly, and with some regret—because he really was amazingly comfortable—lifted his head and propped it up with one hand, mirroring Sherlock, who was doing the same beside him.

“Yeah, you told me,” he said wryly, softening the words with a fond smile. “And you were right as usual. Very gentle hands. Although if you’ll remember, I never actually said otherwise.”

Sherlock waved that away with his free hand. “Well, now you have proof,” he said in obvious satisfaction.

“Yeah, I do,” John agreed easily. Never one to stint on praising Sherlock when he’d earned it, he added, “It was great, actually. Much more of that and I’d have been out like a light. Almost was, in fact.”

He’d been pretty sure that Sherlock couldn’t actually look any more pleased with himself than he already did, but somehow he managed to do it. Not only that, an endearing hint of pink had appeared in his face, dusted across the tops of those prominent cheekbones.

Christ, John thought, he’s actually blushing. No, there was simply no other word for it, that was _adorable_.

“I could do it again if you like,” Sherlock offered, and while his tone was deliberately casual, John thought he looked almost hopeful. He waved a hand in the general direction of John’s bottom and the cane marks thereon, adding, “Those will take a few days to heal.”

“Yeah, I bet they will,” John said ruefully, then grinned to show that he didn’t really mind. “And thank you, I’d appreciate it.” He chuckled. “I’m certainly not going to say no to more of that treatment.”

Sherlock gave him a smug little smile, appearing very pleased by John’s acceptance, and nodded. “Agreed, then.”

“Yeah,” John said fondly, aware now that their coming to an agreement on something might mean rather a lot to Sherlock at the moment, at least if any of John’s suspicions about him feeling insecure were actually correct. “We’re agreed.”

Their eyes locked for a moment, and the look in Sherlock’s took John rather by surprise. In a way it was almost like seeing a little of his own expression mirrored back at him, because while Sherlock still looked enormously self-satisfied, there was also a warmth and fondness in his eyes that John wasn’t used to seeing there.

Not that he’d ever believed that Sherlock was unfeeling, the way some people did—and even if he had he’d have certainly known better after that first spanking—but Sherlock did make a point of concealing any and all of the softer emotions, even though John knew bloody well that he still had them. This was quite possibly one of the most open expressions he’d ever seen Sherlock wear.

And then it was gone, as suddenly as if curtains had been pulled over a window, and Sherlock said abruptly, “Tea.”

Once again the shift in mood was fast enough to take John by surprise—although in his defence, he had been damn near asleep just a few minutes ago—and he blinked before echoing blankly, “Tea?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. “We do still have tea, don’t we?”

“I should hope so,” John replied, finally catching up. “Seeing as I only bought some yesterday.”

Which meant that there ought to be plenty of tea, but given that Sherlock had apparently been up at least some of the night doing mad experiments—because John had no idea if Sherlock had actually slept at all in between the time John had gone to bed and the time Sherlock had started shooting glassware off the table—it wasn’t necessarily a sure thing. It wouldn’t be the first time all the tea had vanished overnight.

Sherlock’s pleased expression didn’t seem to indicate that he had any recollection of using up all the tea, however, so it was probably a fairly safe bet that they still had some. “I want tea,” Sherlock said earnestly, and slid off the bed in a tangle of long limbs that still, somehow, managed to look graceful.

He then stopped and peered expectantly down at John, leaving him in no doubt about exactly who was supposed to make said tea.

At other times it might have been irritating, but John was feeling particularly fond of Sherlock right then, especially when he remembered the answering warmth he’d seen in those usually cool grey eyes. He laughed and waved Sherlock towards the door.

“Go on. I’ll be there in a minute and then I’ll make tea for both of us.”

Apparently satisfied by this, Sherlock vanished out of the door, and John heard the soft pad of footsteps as he went down the hall towards the kitchen.

Stifling a yawn, John dutifully set about getting himself upright, which wasn’t as easy as it might have been since his jeans and pants were still around his knees. He slid backwards off the bed much as Sherlock had done, although not nearly as gracefully, and managed to catch the tangle of fabric before it could slither to his ankles. He got dressed again with a minimum of fuss, and was gratified to find that his bottom really did feel quite a lot better. That arnica cream was good stuff.

However, while his bottom was happier with him, his stomach certainly wasn’t. Now that he was actually awake and moving around again, it quickly began reminding him in no uncertain terms that he had missed breakfast and that it was now well past lunchtime, and so he really, really ought to consider eating something before it got seriously annoyed.

John was quite happy to oblige it. He followed Sherlock down to the kitchen, where he found the mad genius himself leaning intently over the table, already involved in poking at some unnamed experiment. John left him to it and went about first making tea—which Sherlock accepted with a distracted murmur of thanks when John handed him a cup—and then looking for some food to go with it. Thankfully, since he’d been shopping only yesterday, there was still plenty to choose from.

He started with toast, and even managed to convince Sherlock to accept a couple of slices, which he absent-mindedly nibbled on while still working on his experiment with his free hand. John rolled his eyes at the sight, and silently marvelled once again that Sherlock hadn’t poisoned himself long before now. But as long as he was eating and making at least a reasonable attempt to keep the food and the chemicals separate, John wasn’t going to make a fuss about it. Really, with the kitchen doubling as a lab, neither of them were exactly models of food safety.

Once he’d had enough toast, he moved onto making sandwiches instead, deciding that he might as well just combine breakfast and lunch together. Rather to his surprise, he was able to coax Sherlock into eating one of those too, although that might have been because Sherlock now appeared to be so distracted by whatever he was working on that he was barely looking at what John gave him. John didn’t mind at all if it made getting food into Sherlock a bit easier, although that level of distraction didn’t really bode well for trying to have the conversation that he’d been planning on. Still, he’d have to try. Given Sherlock’s penchant for finding trouble, he’d really rather not put it off any longer.

He kept an eye on Sherlock as he was tidying up, waiting for what looked like a reasonable opportunity to strike up a conversation. Conveniently, just as John finished putting everything away, Sherlock left off fiddling with his equipment and straightened up to stare fixedly at the opposite wall, appearing to be deep in thought.

Deep in thought, but not actively working, at least not right at that moment. Deciding that it would do, John mentally braced himself for what he was about to attempt and said, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes barely flicked in his direction. “Hmm?”

“We need to talk.”

“Do we?” At least there were actual words this time, although Sherlock still sounded as though he was paying far more attention to whatever he was thinking about than he was to John. Not that that was in any way unusual, John thought wryly.

“Yeah, we do,” he said, making his voice firmer this time. “And you need to pay attention.”

“Do I?” Sherlock finally turned first his head, and then, reluctantly, the rest of himself, around to face John, looking distracted and vaguely irritated. “Why?”

“Because,” John told him determinedly, “we haven’t had a chance to actually sit down properly and, you know, talk about all this. And we need to.”

Sherlock raised a disdainful eyebrow. “Leaving aside the fact that ‘sitting down properly’ is something neither of us would enjoy at the moment, why would we need to?”

He sounded impatient now, and quite openly scornful, and John forced himself not to roll his eyes. He’d known Sherlock wasn’t going to make this easy. But he was damn well going to carry on anyway, because this conversation needed to happen. And since he was the one who’d started all this, it was his responsibility to make sure that it did happen, no matter how much Sherlock might try to put him off.

“Because this has been a really big adjustment for both of us,” he said, trying for a tone that was the right combination of firm and patient. “We need to know where we stand with everything. And you need to know what the rules are. We both need to know the rules.”

This time Sherlock’s tone was nothing short of a dismissal. “I know the rules.”

“You know the rules,” John echoed, and now it was his turn to raise an eyebrow, which he very dubiously did. “How can you know the rules when we haven’t even talked about it?”

“We have talked about it,” Sherlock said, as if this was entirely obvious.

John blinked. It might be obvious to Sherlock, but it certainly wasn’t obvious to him, because he was pretty bloody sure he’d remember if they’d already had a conversation about this.

“No, we haven’t,” he said slowly. “That’s the whole point. That’s why I want us to talk about it now.”

Sherlock was looking—and sounding—more impatient by the moment. “Yes, we have,” he insisted. “You told me the rules yourself. You want me to be safe. If I do something that you deem to be unnecessarily dangerous, then I get punished.”

And that, to Sherlock, apparently constituted talking about it. John rubbed a hand over his forehead and tried not to sigh, wondering why he was even surprised.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, very deliberately moderating his tone back to firm-but-patient. They still needed to have this conversation, and he couldn’t let exasperation get the better of him, especially not this early in the piece.

“You’re right,” he went on. “We did get that much squared away.” Before Sherlock could begin to look too satisfied, he added quickly, “But that’s very general, Sherlock. I really think we could do with being a bit more specific than that.”

“Why?”

Sherlock sounded honestly bemused, as if he really couldn’t fathom why they might need to go into any more detail than they already had. Apparently, as far as he was concerned, they’d said everything that needed to be said.

And so, of course, that meant it was up to John to try to explain that in fact they hadn’t said everything that needed to be said—quite the contrary, they’d said bugger all, which was the whole reason why he was attempting to have this conversation in the first place. Although right now it was getting quite hard to remember why having it was so important, because frankly he was sick of it already.

He forced himself to push on, though, hoping that Sherlock could still be persuaded without John having to start barking orders at him again—which he would do if it came down to it, but he’d rather try reasoned argument first.

“Because you need to know what you can expect from me,” he said, trying to convey with his tone that this really was important, even if Sherlock might not think so. “Sherlock, this has been a huge adjustment in how we do things, for you especially. You’re not used to answering to anyone, ever, and then suddenly we’re doing this. You need to know where you stand. You need to know what the rules are. What sort of things I’ll punish you for. What sort of punishments you’ll get. What I will do, what I won’t do.” He waved a hand in the air in a vague ‘and so on’ gesture. “All of that.”

Sherlock was looking at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “But I already know all of that,” he said. His tone implied very strongly that John should be well aware of this, and the fact that he apparently wasn’t was a major lapse on his part.

Oh, John was definitely sick of this conversation already.

“Sherlock, come on,” he said, still trying gamely to sound patient. “You don’t know all of that. That’s the whole point. We haven’t talked about any of it. That’s why I want to talk about it now.”

“We don’t need to talk about any of it,” Sherlock said, once again as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “This is me, John. I deduced it. I don’t need to hear you say it.”

He deduced it, John thought, and fought the urge to slap himself in the forehead. Oh, Christ. Of course he deduced it.

_Or at least he thinks he has_ , he added to himself wryly. Well, that was just going to add a whole new layer of difficulty to this already difficult conversation, if Sherlock thought he already knew everything John was going to say. Although really, it was his own fault. He ought to have seen this coming a mile off.

“You deduced it,” he echoed, managing with some effort to keep the weariness out of his tone.

“Of course I deduced it,” Sherlock said curtly, impatient again.

“All the rules.”

“Yes.”

“Everything I’m going to do.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock said very firmly, as if that should be the end of it.

And as far as Sherlock was concerned, no doubt it should be, John thought with a mental sigh. Having made his deductions, Sherlock would be quite convinced that he was right and that there was no further point in discussing it.

John might have been all right with that, except that this wasn’t a case or a puzzle or a mystery they were talking about. This was their entire relationship, which had just undergone a huge and fundamental shift. Sherlock’s deductions could be astonishingly accurate, but he could and did make mistakes. Sometimes he missed things, especially when it came to things like relationships and emotions. And when it came to this, when it came to _them_ , they simply couldn’t afford for John to just assume that Sherlock had it right and then find out later that he didn’t. Sherlock was trusting him, and John owed it to him to do this properly.

And so he folded his arms over his chest, mentally braced himself—again—for an argument, and gave Sherlock a long, steady look. “You didn’t deduce that I was going to spank you that first time,” he said pointedly. “And don’t even try to tell me that you did. You were as surprised as I was.”

In return, Sherlock gave him a look that let him know quite clearly that he thought John was an idiot. “Of course I didn’t deduce _that_ ,” he said scathingly. “Until you actually did it, I had no data. But once the new parameters were in place, it was easy to deduce your intentions from there.”

“You also didn’t deduce that I was going to use the hairbrush to spank you this morning,” John countered. “Not until I asked where it was, and that doesn’t count.”

Sherlock shifted slightly where he stood, his scornful expression giving way to just a hint of discomfort. “I did,” he said, only to qualify a moment later, “To some extent.” At John’s raised eyebrow, he insisted, “I knew you were going to use something. You’d already told me as much. Data, you see? The hairbrush was one logical conclusion.” He paused, then added with an indignant huff, “And just because I deduce something doesn’t mean I’m going to like it.”

John wasn’t finished with his side of the argument. “You _also_ didn’t deduce that I was going to make you stand in the corner.”

Sherlock huffed again and shot him an irritated look, apparently not liking the fact that John kept making reasonable points. “Well, no,” he admitted tersely. “I hadn’t realised that you were going to use other methods of punishment apart from the physical. But again, now that I have the data—“

“You can deduce everything, right, fine.” Thoroughly sick of this now, John breathed out heavily through his nose, pressed a hand to his forehead and silently prayed—again—for patience.

“Look,” he said after a moment, finally deciding to just throw himself on Sherlock’s mercy rather than trying to argue his corner any further. “Even if you have deduced everything, even if you know every possible thing I’m going to do, I’d still like us to talk about it. For my peace of mind, if nothing else. Because there may, just possibly, still be some things you haven’t deduced, and I don’t want to be constantly springing things on you when you’re being punished. I’ll feel a lot better if I know that we both know where we stand, all right?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and sighed dramatically, leaving John in no doubt that he was feeling quite thoroughly put upon. “Oh, fine,” he said, with the irritable air of someone conferring a very reluctant favour. “Go ahead then. But you won’t be telling me anything I don’t already know.”

Relieved that Sherlock had agreed, however ungracefully, John said with a hint of humour, “Well, you ought to be used to that, so just . . . bear with me, all right?”

Sherlock replied by waving impatiently for him to go on, obviously wanting to get this torment over with. Well, John could get behind that, at least.

He took a deep breath and blew it out, telling himself firmly that he _would_ see this through. “Okay,” he began, trying—belatedly—to marshal his thoughts and think about the best order to tackle things in. “Well, for starters, you’re right that I want you to be safe.” That seemed like as good a place to start as any. “That is why I’m doing this. I’m interested in keeping you safe, not, you know . . . trying to completely control you or anything.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock murmured, with another roll of his eyes.

“Obvious or not, I want you to hear it,” John said, manfully ignoring the eye roll. “This is about keeping you safe—and hopefully in reasonable health, too. So, yeah. Unnecessary danger. Taking risks with your life or your health when you don’t need to. Those are going to be the big ones. Those will always get you punished.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said again. “ _Really_ , John.”

He was sounding fully condescending now, and John was highly tempted to snap back at him. However, he was pretty sure that doing so would be giving Sherlock exactly what he wanted—a reaction and a derailment of the conversation before it could really get started, not to mention putting John even further on the back foot than he already was by making him lose his temper. And since it had taken rather a lot of effort on John’s part just to get them this far, he had no intention of giving up now just because Sherlock was making things difficult.

He took a steadying breath and tamped down firmly on his rising irritation. “I just want to make it clear that I do understand that there’s always going to be some danger involved in what you do,” he said, keeping his tone carefully even. “Your job is dangerous, I know that. You’ll be in some danger and so will I. And that’s fine. I’ve got no intention of trying to stop you from working, or anything like that.”

Sherlock scoffed, giving John a look that was nothing short of absolutely scathing. “Do you really believe for a moment that if you had any intention at all of trying to stop me from working, that I would have agreed to this?” he demanded, his voice fairly dripping with scorn. “Because I _did_ agree, John, just in case you’re forgetting.”

John blinked at the aggressive tone, then as his temper caught up with him, found himself gritting his teeth and trying not to scowl. All right, he could see how the work—and the mere suggestion that he might try to forbid Sherlock from doing the work, even though John was in fact trying to reassure him of just the opposite—might be a sensitive subject, but really, Sherlock was being quite unreasonably stroppy now. Either he’d suddenly got into one hell of a mood—which was quite possible; it certainly wouldn’t be the first time—or this was actually deliberate provocation, aimed at making John give up on the idea of having this conversation at all.

Well, if it was, too bad. They bloody well _were_ having this conversation, whether Sherlock liked it or not.

“I know you agreed,” John said, speaking a bit more sternly. “We wouldn’t be doing this if you hadn’t. But I still want to make it clear.”

“It _is_ clear.” Sherlock’s scornful tone was giving way to rapidly growing frustration, his voice rising steadily as he bit out the words. “It was _already_ clear. Now it’s absolutely transparent and intolerably _dull_.”

He was giving every impression of being dangerously close to a real Sherlock tantrum now, and it was that more than anything else that abruptly snapped John right back into his disciplinarian mindset. He responded instinctively, squaring his shoulders and straightening his stance, his expression growing stern as he stared Sherlock down.

“Sherlock,” he said sharply, warningly. “That’s enough. You’re deliberately making this difficult.”

His warning went ignored, Sherlock apparently too far gone into temper to stop himself—or perhaps not even bothering to try. He met John’s stern look with a petulant scowl, his voice growing even louder as he shot back, “ _You’re_ deliberately making this difficult by insisting on telling me things I already know!” He smacked the table with one hand, glassware rattling under the impact. “Boring!”

Right, John thought grimly. And that, right there, was where he was drawing the line. In fact, he had probably been remiss in not drawing it as soon as Sherlock started to get really stroppy with him. Well, he might be a bit late in doing it, but he was bloody well going to do it now.

He made it to Sherlock’s side in four quick strides, not missing the sudden flare of alarm in Sherlock’s eyes as he approached. Well, too bad. John had given him plenty of chances to cooperate and he’d done his level best to be patient, and Sherlock had still decided that he’d rather throw a tantrum. Now he’d just have to take what he had coming to him.

John wondered if Sherlock wasn’t thinking along the same lines, at least on some level, because despite looking apprehensive he made no attempt to back away. Instead, he stood rather meekly still as John took his arm, turned him, and planted a single hard smack across the seat of his pyjamas. Sherlock jumped a little as it connected, but made no sound, even though John knew it must have seriously stung.

He turned Sherlock firmly back around and met the wide grey eyes with a hard stare. “I said,” he began, and then paused for emphasis before repeating very sternly, “ _That’s enough_.”

Sherlock nodded hastily. His eyes were still wide, and his expression seemed almost to be in flux, emotions chasing each other across his face as if he wasn’t quite sure which one he ought to settle on. Much to John’s relief, though, he no longer looked in any danger of throwing a tantrum.

John released him and stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest in a properly authoritarian stance. “Right,” he said crisply, trying to make it very clear with his tone that he was taking charge of this situation as of right now. “I was trying to do this in some kind of reasonable order, but now I’m just going to have to skip ahead to the part where I’m not trying to control everything you do, and I’m not going to punish you just for . . . being you, but I _will_ give you a smack or two for attitude if you really push me. You just really pushed me, and so you got smacked. So. Are you going to behave now and have this conversation with me, or would you rather I smacked you for attitude again first? Either way, we are having this conversation.”

He kept his eyes on Sherlock as he spoke, watching as those fluxing emotions continued to move across his face, and waited with stern patience for Sherlock to decide which one he wanted to stop on. As far as John was concerned, it didn’t really matter which one it was. He’d certainly prefer cooperation, but if Sherlock chose instead to go back to his tantrum, then that was fine too. John could handle that. And no matter how stroppy Sherlock got, and how difficult he might try to make it, they _were_ having this conversation.

Perhaps Sherlock recognised that—after all, John knew very well that Sherlock was watching him right back, and seeing more than John ever could—because after a few more moments of apparent turmoil, he relaxed with surprising suddenness, the vibrating tension leaving him in a single huffed out breath. His expression eased with it, the tangle of emotions finally subsiding into what John thought was a kind of sulky relief.

A few days ago it might have surprised him, but not now. Ever since they had started this, Sherlock had demonstrated over and over that on some level, what he desperately needed was someone who could lay down the law to him. He might not particularly enjoy it when it happened, but deep down—and sometimes not so deep down—he did nevertheless want it to happen.

And it had certainly stopped his brewing tantrum this time. Sherlock was shuffling his feet now, his eyes lowering to somewhere in the vicinity of John’s chest as one hand stole around to rub gingerly at the spot John had smacked. After a moment he finally muttered a reply to John’s question, his tone sounding as if it was stuck halfway between sullen and sheepish. “No.”

It obviously wasn’t a defiant no, but John wanted clarification anyway, just to make sure. “No what?”

The merest hint of impatience crept back into Sherlock’s face, but it was far more muted this time. “No, I don’t want you to smack me for attitude again,” he elaborated dutifully. There was a pause, and then his expression became a pout and he added in a sulky tone, “I’m still sore. And that hurt.”

“It was supposed to,” John said sternly, refusing to be moved by the pout. “If you don’t want another, then just behave yourself. All I’m asking is that you just let me do this, so that we both know where we stand. Okay?”

Sherlock heaved a put upon sigh, apparently unable to help himself even after getting smacked for attitude, but nodded in reluctant agreement. “Fine.”

“Good,” John said, relieved. He let himself relax a little out of his authoritative stance, taking a couple of paces back so that he could lean more casually against the bench. “Right, so where was I?”

Sherlock curled his lip. “Smacking for attitude,” he supplied, saying the words with obvious distaste.

“Only if you really push it,” John replied. “I’m not expecting you to become a model of politeness. In fact I’m not expecting you to be polite at all. But I’m not going to put up with your giant stroppy tantrums either.”

Sherlock looked mutinous for a moment, which John suspected was more to do with his wording than the actual content, although in his opinion ‘giant stroppy tantrums’ was entirely accurate. It was gone as quickly as it came, though, and Sherlock gave a grudging nod. “All right.”

“All right,” John said, before hastening to reassure him, “But, you know I’d never do it in public or anything like that.”

Sherlock gave a snort. “Of course I know that.”

“Although if you’re acting up too much, I might tell you to pull your head in in public.”

Another snort, and now Sherlock looked just the tiniest bit amused. “You already do that.”

His tone was neutral, but even so it broke the remaining tension between them, and John chuckled. “I suppose I do, don’t I? All right, no real change there, then.” He gave Sherlock a meaningful look. “Except that if you keep pushing it after I tell you to stop it you might be looking at a smack or two when we get home.”

“Also obvious,” Sherlock informed him loftily.

“Of course,” John said wryly. “All right, moving on then. We’ve got way ahead of what I mainly wanted to talk about here.”

Looking resigned, Sherlock mimicked John’s stance by leaning back against the table and waved expansively for him to go on.

Right, John thought. On with the show, then.

“Okay,” he said decisively. “Right, going back to the things that you’ll actually get properly punished for.” He’d decided that the best option would be to just steer them back to where they’d been before Sherlock had his stroppy fit and start again, even if it meant covering a bit of ground twice. Sherlock, he thought, would just have to put up with the repetition.

“Basically, that’s safety issues,” he went on. “That’s my main concern. Taking risks with your life or your health when it’s not absolutely necessary.”

“Which is why you’re doing this in the first place,” Sherlock said, with the air of someone reciting something he’d already heard far too many times. “I know, John.”

“Yeah,” John said shortly. “You know why I’m doing this. But the problem is that sometimes I don’t think you know when a risk is or isn’t unnecessary.”

Either that, John added to himself, or Sherlock just didn’t care. Whichever one it was, though, the result was the same: Sherlock took unnecessary risks, and it had to stop.

“There’s a difference between taking a necessary risk to solve a case and taking one just because you’re curious, or bored, or just trying to prove how clever you are,” John went on, trying to make sure that his very real concern was clear in both his face and his voice. “That’s the whole bloody problem, Sherlock. You don’t know where to draw that line.” He took a deep breath, meeting Sherlock’s eyes steadily. “And that’s why I’m asking you to trust me to draw it for you.”

Sherlock was silent for several long moments. His expression was unusually solemn, not his typical expression of deep concentration, but one that was introspective and almost pensive. Finally he said, very quietly, “I do.”

For all that he’d spoken softly, he didn’t sound in any way uncertain. Still, John couldn’t help asking, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied simply. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have agreed to this in the first place.”

He fell silent again after that, but John had the strong sense that the silence was a pause rather than a full stop, and that Sherlock had more to say. He remained quiet too, waiting, and sure enough after a few moments Sherlock began to speak again, still in that soft, thoughtful tone.

“The first time,” Sherlock said slowly, “you spanked me because you thought I’d taken a foolish and unnecessary risk—and it wasn’t the first time I’d done it. You were angry because I didn’t see it the same way as you did. And you were afraid of what might happen if I kept doing it. You . . . you value my life. In some ways, I think more than I do.”

He paused again, his forehead creasing as if in concentration. His eyes were intent on John’s face, bright with some complicated mix of emotion.

“You enjoy the thrill of working with me,” he said. He was still speaking slowly, appearing to be choosing his words with exaggerated care, and it was so different to his usual rapid fire way of talking that John found himself quite spellbound by it. He listened silently, unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s, as the oddly soft words dropped into the space between them.

“You enjoy the danger that comes with it,” Sherlock went on. “But part of why you enjoy it is because you want to be there to protect me. You see the risks I take and you want to be by my side, either to stop me from taking them or to be there to help if things go wrong. You want me to work, but you also want me to be safe, or at least as safe as I can be. You . . . you’re the balance that I can’t achieve by myself, John. And when you were spanking me that first time, I could see that. I could see it so clearly. And so when you said that you would do it again, I agreed. And I trust you, John Watson, to draw the line for me when I can’t do it for myself.”

This time, when Sherlock fell silent again, John was embarrassed to realise that not only were his eyes stinging, but he also had a genuine lump in his throat. He coughed and turned his face to the side, wiping hastily at thankfully unshed tears.

“Bloody hell,” he said roughly, and turned back to face Sherlock, having to swallow hard before he could speak again.

“Sherlock—Christ, I don’t even know what to say.” It was true; he had no bloody idea what to say, but after hearing what Sherlock had just said to him he was damned if he wasn’t going to try.

“Thank you,” he said finally. “For trusting me so much. I want you to know that I don’t take it lightly. And I’ll honour it.”

Not the most eloquent, maybe, but it was from the heart. There was a part of him that would have liked to say more—that would have liked to tell Sherlock how much it meant to him to be trusted, to be needed and useful and to feel like he was doing some good in the world. But John had never been good at talking about his feelings, and those words were buried under layers of awkwardness and stubborn stoicism. They wouldn’t have come even if he tried. But this was Sherlock he was talking to, and so John just hoped that what he hadn’t managed to convey in words, Sherlock would see anyway.

And apparently he did, at least if the gleam of understanding in his eyes was any indication. It seemed Sherlock had had enough of being eloquent himself, though, since he just nodded—again with that unusual solemnity—and said, “I know.”

There was a long moment of silence between them after that, as John tried to pull himself together and stop feeling like his throat was about to close up at any moment, and Sherlock—well, Sherlock stood there and watched him do it, which might have been more uncomfortable if John hadn’t become rather used to Sherlock staring at him. As it was, he found he didn’t much mind if Sherlock could read his struggle in his face. Sherlock had just laid his own feelings out in a way John had never heard him do, so John figured it was only fair to let his emotions be seen in return, even if he wasn’t saying anything about them.

Finally, when he thought he’d managed to get himself back on a reasonably even keel, he cleared his throat, met Sherlock’s eyes squarely and said in a deliberately steady voice, “You know we’re not finished talking about the rules, right?”

Sherlock’s solemn, intent expression became a much more typical frown, and he gave a little huff of irritation. “Surely,” he said with an air of disbelief, “we have just covered _everything_ that needed to be said.” He crossed his arms over his chest in apparent pique. “I’ll have you know that I was just extremely honest with you, John.”

“Yeah, I know you were,” John said. He grinned suddenly. “Were you hoping it would make me stop talking about this?”

“That isn’t why I did it,” Sherlock told him indignantly. There was a pause, and then he added, “Though I wouldn’t mind if it was a by-product.”

John chuckled. He really couldn’t blame Sherlock for wanting to the conversation to be over—honestly, he wouldn’t have minded putting a stop to it here either. But he’d committed himself to finishing it, and he still had more he wanted to cover before he would consider it finished. And after Sherlock’s open declaration of trust in him, there was no way John was going to shy away from what he saw as living up to that trust just because it was a bit awkward.

“Nice try,” he said, giving Sherlock a fond smile. “And look, I know you’re sick of this. But you just told me how much you trust me. This conversation, this is me honouring that trust, and wanting to make sure that you know where you stand. And we’re not done yet. But if you just let me get through the rest of it, I promise we’ll be done soon. All right?”

Sherlock sighed, once again looking heavily put upon, but after a moment he gave a reluctant nod. “If you really must, then all right.”

“I really must,” John confirmed. “And thank you.”

In return, Sherlock gave him a look that said very clearly that he wished John would just get on with it. After a moment of casting around in his mind to remember where they’d been up to before Sherlock had decided to damn near reduce him to tears, John obliged.

“All right,” he said. “So, as we were. What you’ll get punished for. Unnecessary risks to your life or your health, as I call them.” He put particular emphasis on that last part, giving Sherlock a meaningful look.

“That means you’re not going to put yourself in danger when you don’t need to, and it means you’re going to start taking better care of yourself at home, too. I will want you to take reasonable safety precautions with your experiments. I will insist that you get at least some minimal amount of food and sleep, even when you’re working. You might think of your body as just transport, but it’s not safe to neglect it the way you do.”

Sherlock sighed again, managing with both the sigh and his expression to convey a profound lack of surprise.

“John, you’ve been trying to insist that I eat and sleep more regularly ever since you moved in,” he said in a wry tone. “Did you really think I wouldn’t have deduced that those things would be on your list of risks to my health? Not to mention the mere fact that you’re a doctor means that I’ve known from the very moment our agreement was in place that you’d want to enforce things like that.”

Sherlock did have a point there, and John grinned a bit. “Yes, fine, I suppose that was a bit obvious,” he said with a chuckle. “I just don’t want there to be any misunderstandings when I start insisting that you eat and sleep.”

Sherlock looked unimpressed. “Again, you’ve been trying to insist that I eat and sleep ever since you moved in.”

“Yeah,” John agreed mildly. “But I didn’t have the option of punishing you for not doing it then, did I?”

There was a pause, and then Sherlock said delicately, “True enough.” He sniffed and looked away. “Just don’t expect me to always be graceful about it.”

“That’s about the last thing I expect,” John said dryly. “So long as you accept that since I’m the doctor here, it’s my call. And when I make the call, you do as you’re told or you get punished. And actually, that applies to all of this. From now on, health and safety issues are my call, and disobeying me gets you punished.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “You said that this morning.”

“Which part?”

“If I disobey you, I’ll be punished.” Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, and then his lips twisted in faint irritation. “I admit that until you said it, I . . . hadn’t thought about it in quite those terms. Although I should have. There’s always something.”

John remembered wondering something along those same lines when he had brought up the disobedience angle that morning, unsure if it was something that Sherlock had really considered before John said it. Apparently it hadn’t been.

“Well, now you have the data, don’t you?” he said, intending it as reassurance. “You’ll know for next time.”

“I already had the data,” Sherlock said. “That’s why I should have known.” At John’s look of incomprehension, Sherlock gave him a lofty glance. “You’re not just a doctor, John. You’re a soldier. Giving and obeying orders is something you’re very familiar with. And disobeying orders is an offence in itself. It only makes sense that you’d fall back on military patterns to do this.”

John blinked. “Well . . . yeah, I suppose,” he said slowly. “But I’m not actually trying to be military about it. I suppose it just seems to me like the best way of doing it. We’re not always going to agree about what is and isn’t too dangerous, or what is and isn’t you totally neglecting your health. You’re trusting me to make those decisions, but I need you to obey them once I’ve made them or there’s no point. So, yeah. Disobedience is an offence in itself.”

Sherlock nodded impatiently, his expression making it clear that John was, yet again, telling him things he already knew. “Just don’t expect me to never argue about it.”

“That’s also about the last thing I expect,” John said wryly. “Look, I know we’re going to disagree about things. We both know we’ve got very different ideas about what is and isn’t a problem. And if I tell you to do something and you disagree with me, or for some reason you don’t understand why I want you to do it, you can tell me.” Not that he really imagined that Sherlock would ever need permission to disagree with him, but still, John thought it was important to make it clear that he wasn’t trying to set himself up as a dictator.

“Maybe we’ll need to have a discussion about it,” he went on. “I might have it wrong, and you can set me straight if I do. But in the end it is my call, and if I tell you to do something pertaining to your health or safety and you don’t do it, then you earn yourself a punishment. Right?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said evenly. “Since we’ve covered it about three times now and I’ve already known since the first time you mentioned it this morning.”

John snorted. “Yes, all right, fine. Moving on then.”

“Please do.” Sherlock waved for him to go on again. John half suspected he just wanted to move away from the topic where his deductions had been incomplete.

“Okay then,” he said, and then promptly thought of something else he wanted to say. “Actually, one more thing.” He ignored Sherlock’s artfully pained expression. “You know the disobedience thing only applies to health and safety stuff, right? I’m not going to just start demanding wholesale obedience from you.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said, and cocked an eyebrow at him. “And do you really think you’d get it if you did?”

“Not a chance,” John replied without missing a beat. “But look, I just mean that if I tell you to clean up your bloody mess and you don’t, or things along those lines, I’m not going to start punishing you for that. I might get annoyed and tell you off, but, you know, that’s all.”

“You already do that.”

“Yeah, exactly,” John said. “That’s what I mean. No change there. But I wanted it to be clear.”

Sherlock was looking pained again. “It’s clear.”

“Okay. Oh, and when I said you could tell me if you disagreed with me, I meant about my decisions for your health and safety. Once you’ve actually earned yourself a punishment, I’m not going to put up with arguing about it.” John had suddenly realised that he hadn’t actually made that distinction, and that it was probably rather important that he do so, even if Sherlock had worked it out already. He pointed a stern look at Sherlock, saying firmly, “When you’re being punished, no arguing, no backchat and you do as you’re told. Clear?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock told him again, with more emphasis this time. John silently wished he had a quid for every time Sherlock had said that today. He’d probably be able to buy himself a few beers with it, which frankly he could bloody well use right about now.

_Later_ , he told himself firmly. If they both managed to actually survive this conversation, maybe he’d pop out to the pub tonight.

“Okay,” he said, trying to ignore the weary note that had crept into his voice. “So, moving on. What kind of punishments you’ll get.”

“I do believe we’ve already covered that too,” Sherlock said. “Several times. Grades of corporal punishment ranging from a spanking over your knee, implements to be advised, up to the cane as the most severe. With additional grades of severity between the canes, of course.”

John blinked. “Implements to be advised?” he echoed. “Christ, you make it sound like a contract.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

That stopped John short for a moment, and then he shrugged. “Yeah, actually, I suppose it is.”

Sherlock gave a nod of satisfaction at his answer. “So, implements to be advised. Of course you’ve already employed my hairbrush, but I was assuming you intend to add others.”

“I do, yeah, when I can find some,” John said. “I don’t know, maybe a wooden spoon, or a ruler. Not a slipper. Too awkward.”

Sherlock nodded again, appearing quite unperturbed by these possibilities. “Implements to be advised, then,” he said with finality, making it clear he wanted to move on.

“You don’t want a specific list?”

“John,” Sherlock said, in a tone of obviously deliberate patience, “you insisted on being caned yourself before you would even consider using them on me. I think I can trust you not to choose anything that’s going to injure me.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” John said. “And yeah, all right, fair enough then. Implements to be advised. I’ll let you know as I find things.”

“Thank you. Next.”

John managed not to roll his eyes at the imperious tone, electing instead to ignore it in favour of pressing on. “Okay,” he said. “Next. The other kinds of punishments, and by that I mean the non-spanking sort. I know you didn’t expect me to make you stand in the corner this morning.”

Sherlock’s expression tightened in distaste, although John wasn’t sure whether it was from the memory of corner time itself or the fact that he’d been surprised by it. “You intend to make it part of the routine,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Yeah, I do,” John said, not wanting to beat around the bush. “I think it’s a good way to give us both some time to focus and calm down before we get to the actual punishment. And to give you some time to think about why I’m punishing you.”

“I expect I’ll be quite well aware.”

Sherlock’s tone made it clear that he was in no doubt whatsoever about this, but John wasn’t nearly so sure. Sherlock would most likely be quite well aware of what he’d done, yes. But aware of why exactly John was punishing him for it? That was a different question, and John strongly suspected that the answer was ‘not necessarily’.

He didn’t particularly feel like having an argument about it, though—especially since Sherlock was highly unlikely to concede the point even if John made it—and so he settled for just falling back on laying down the law, albeit rather mildly.

“Even so, fifteen minutes in the corner to think about it won’t do you any harm,” he said. “Corner time stays as part of the routine. Call it time to reflect.”

Sherlock grimaced again—possibly at the name this time; no doubt ‘corner time’ was just as bad as ‘cuddle time’—but gave a grudging nod. “All right.”

“Good,” John said. “Okay, so corner time is part of the punishment routine. Fifteen minutes before you get spanked. Longer if you muck about when you’re supposed to be thinking. And I might sometimes use it as a punishment on its own if I think you just need some time to calm down. If you’re throwing a tantrum or just getting too worked up and frustrated, then a smack and some time in the corner to calm down sounds like a pretty good remedy to me.”

Sherlock sighed. “If you must. Although again, if I’m getting ‘too worked up’ as you say, I’m unlikely to take an intervention like that gracefully.”

“I can handle you,” John said evenly.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, rather to John’s surprise. “I believe you can.”

While Sherlock’s tone was neutral, John was left in no doubt that he’d just been quite highly complimented. Really, he thought, Sherlock was just full of surprises today.

“Next,” Sherlock reminded him sharply, and John bit his lip to hide a smile. So much for enjoying the moment.

“Right,” he said. “Okay, so, there’s corner time. And depending on what you’ve done, I may decide to add other things like that onto your punishment, or make them a punishment by themselves. Maybe an early bedtime if I think you need more sleep, or if you just need a time out.” He thought about that for a moment, then added wryly, “Although I don’t suppose sending you to bed without supper would make much of an impact, would it?”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up in the faintest hint of a smile. “You wouldn’t do it anyway,” he said. “You want me to eat more, not less. I can hardly see you deliberately depriving me of meals.”

“Very true,” John said, since it was. “Okay, so bed without supper isn’t an option. But just sending you to bed is. God knows you could use getting more rest.”

Sherlock made a vaguely scornful noise, but nodded.

“Although I wouldn’t do it if there was something urgent going on with a case.”

“Well, of course not,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Really, John. I am aware that you know the work comes first.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, actually,” John said mildly. “The work comes second. Your safety comes first. That is the whole point of this exercise.”

Sherlock actually looked a bit taken aback by that, but John thought there was a flicker of something in his eyes that didn’t look displeased. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Well. Of course I am aware that our opinions differ on that.”

“Which is why on matters of safety, my opinion is the one that counts.”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock was back to sounding impatient again. “That is what I’ve agreed to. Next.”

“Yeah, all right,” John said, although in truth he thought he might be running out of easy nexts. He’d been trying to think of other possibilities for the non-spanking punishment list, but now he was drawing a bit of a blank.

“Okay,” he started, hoping his memory might jog if he just kept talking. “So, where were we? Um—other kinds of punishments. We did corner time and being sent to bed.”

Sherlock’s breath huffed out in a sigh of pure frustration. “Yes, we did them. We did them to death, John. In fact this entire conversation has been done to death. It’s practically a murder scene. Surely we’ve covered everything by now.”

“That’s the problem, though, we haven’t,” John said, trying hard not to let his own frustration show. “Look, I’m ad-libbing here, all right? This is new to me too. I’m not used to thinking up punishments. But like I said, I don’t want to be constantly springing things on you. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Sherlock made another scornful noise. “John, have I been even slightly surprised by any of the punishments you’ve mentioned so far?”

“No, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock said again, this time with heavy emphasis. “For the last time, this is _me_. Everything you have or haven’t thought of yet, I have already deduced. You are _not_ going to be ‘springing’ things on me.”

“You didn’t—”

“Deduce the first spanking or the first corner time, no,” Sherlock rattled off, sounding utterly exasperated now. “How many times must I tell you, I didn’t have the data? Now I do. You’re planning to use a mixture of corporal and non-corporal punishment. You like military routine and you fall back into a military command role when you’re disciplining me, but you intend to treat me much more like an overgrown child than a disobedient soldier. You will inevitably fall back on using all the tried and true methods that you know from your own upbringing or that of your contemporaries. Spanking. Time out. Early bedtime. Writing lines. No playing outside. Confiscation of toys. Withdrawal of privileges. And so on. You will adjust them as you need to in order to fit them to our situation, but the basic aspects will be the same. I know this, and I have agreed. There is simply no need to recite it all out loud. You may be planning to treat me like an overgrown child, but I ask you to remember that I am not one.”

The wall of words had been spoken in such a rush that for a moment John could only blink in surprise, still trying to process the barrage of deductions that had just been flung at him. But as his brain began to catch up with what Sherlock had actually said, he felt his eyebrows lifting in a kind of incredulous amusement.

“No playing outside?” he echoed, trying not to smile. “Really?”

Sherlock gave him a haughty look and crossed his arms over his chest. “I might want to play outside.”

John snorted. “I’m lucky if I can get you out of the flat unless you’ve got a case on. And confiscation of toys? I’m not planning to take your chemistry set away from you.” He paused, considering. “Well, not unless you actually destroy the house with it.”

“I did say you would adjust the basic ideas as necessary.”

“Yeah, you did,” John agreed, sobering. “And you’re right, about all of it, and way ahead of me as always. But I do know you’re not a child. And I wasn’t trying to treat you like one—not right now, at least,” he added wryly. “I was just trying to be fair.”

“I know,” Sherlock told him. “And you have been. I understand the rules, and I understand the consequences. I may not know exactly what they will be on every occasion, but I know the general terms, and that’s enough. I also know why you’re doing it. You want to keep me safe. You don’t enjoy hurting me. Oh, you get some satisfaction out of being able to make me do as I’m told, and from teaching me a lesson when you think I’ve gone too far, but you’re the very furthest thing from a sadist. You have to force yourself back into your military mindset and remind yourself constantly of why you’re doing it just so that you can go through with it. You would never deliberately harm or humiliate me, and you have no desire to try to control everything I do or alter my basic personality. You are well aware that what we’re doing is unorthodox, but you accept that _I_ am unorthodox, and you are trying to protect me in the way you believe will be most effective. If you did not believe it would be effective in helping you to protect me, or if you believed it would ultimately be detrimental to me, you would not be doing it.” Deductions made, Sherlock spread his hands, meeting John’s gaze with a sudden and piercing intensity. “Tell me, John. Am I wrong on any of it?”

John found himself blinking again, blowing out a breath as he tried to find the words to answer. “I . . . no,” he said finally. “At least I hope not. I . . . that is what I want. To protect you. As much as I can, at least.”

“I know,” Sherlock said again, his voice softer this time. “And I don’t doubt your sincerity, John. If I did, I wouldn’t have agreed to this. But I did agree, and I knew what it would mean. And so: when it comes to issues where you decide a punishment is required, I trust you to be fair.”

John met his eyes for a long moment, finding himself nodding in slow acceptance at what he saw there. Still, his conscience insisted that he ask one final time, “Are you _sure?_ ”

Sherlock looked frustrated again for a moment, then his face cleared. “The canes,” he said abruptly, making John blink yet again with the apparent non sequitur. “John, if I had insisted that I never, under any circumstances wanted you to use them on me—if I had said it and meant it, and had told you that instead I was going to post them back to Mycroft dusted with a toxin that has a mild but unpleasant emetic effect—would you have demanded that we kept them and used them anyway?”

John took a moment to sort through that, then said carefully, “Well, I wouldn’t have let you send them back to Mycroft with poison on them—but no, of course I wouldn’t have used them. Not if you were really that opposed to it.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said with satisfaction. “You want to keep me from harm, so you wouldn’t allow me to do something that you believed to be foolish and dangerous. You want to honour the trust I’ve shown you by agreeing to this, and so you wouldn’t punish me in a manner that I hadn’t given at least grudging consent to. Don’t you see, John? That example sums up the whole thing.”

John considered that for a moment, and decided that Sherlock actually did have a point, for all that his example had involved threatening to poison his brother.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “All right, I suppose it does.” He paused again, then frowned and asked with wary curiosity, “Do you really have a toxin that can do that?”

“Not one that’s absorbed through the skin,” Sherlock said, appearing regretful about this. “And since I doubt that Mycroft could be persuaded to lick the canes even if I did send them back to him, it would be a waste of effort.”

“Right,” John said, deciding that it was probably better not to take that line of enquiry any further. “But look, are you really sure—”

The chirp of a text on Sherlock’s phone interrupted him. Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and he leapt to retrieve the phone with unusual enthusiasm—no doubt as an excuse to get away from the conversation, John thought wryly, not that he blamed him. And seeing the sudden sharp interest on Sherlock’s face as he read the text, he could guess immediately who it was from.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, looking up. “A murder in Battersea Park. He wants us to come.”

So much for the rest of their conversation, John thought. But then, Sherlock had made it quite clear that as far as he was concerned, the conversation was already over and had been entirely unnecessary in the first place.

And really, he was probably right, at least about it being over. John was still convinced that the conversation had needed to happen, but at this point he was pretty sure he’d covered everything he could think of. And anything he’d missed, Sherlock had almost certainly taken care of in his torrent of deduction. Thinking about it, John had to agree with Sherlock’s earlier conclusion: they’d done it to death.

The thought made him grin, half in amusement and half in sheer relief. “From one murder scene to another, then,” he said, knowing Sherlock would get the reference. “I’ll get my jacket.”

Sherlock’s eyes locked on to him, bright with approval, and once again John caught a glimpse of a surprising warmth and affection in that usually cool grey gaze. It held for a moment, Sherlock’s lips turning up just a little at the corners—and then he was off, spinning on his heel in a whirl of pyjamas and dark curls and dashing back down the hall to his bedroom.

Left to his own devices, John made short work of finding his jacket and shoes, and dutifully took up a position by the door to wait. It was only minutes before Sherlock was back again, now wrapped in coat, scarf and gloves and looking every inch the haughty consulting detective.

Seeing him, John thought with sudden amusement that no one would ever guess that the great consulting detective had been spanked over the end of his bed just hours before, and was still sporting a very sore bottom under all those layers.

Something of that must have shown in his expression, because Sherlock huffed and gave him a lofty glance. “It hardly hurts at all.”

“Good to hear,” John said cheerfully. “Oh, and I owe you cuddle time when we get home, by the way.” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, he reminded him, “The smack for attitude.”

Sherlock made a scoffing noise, but John didn’t think he looked entirely displeased by the prospect. He grinned and gestured Sherlock towards the door. “After you.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed, and he flashed John a very quick smile. And then he was out the door and clattering down the stairs, curls bouncing with every step.

Smiling to himself, John followed him.

 


End file.
